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Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Okay. This is the last I will focus any attention on this matter of being let go from the "new job" and Whistleblower Penelope. She left her final comment (so she says) so I shall respond:

Penelope says:

You were fired, let go, etc. BECAUSE they know. Did you by chance read the email commenting on staff not tweeting, fb, bloging (sic) on celebrities that come into the restaurant. That was because they read your blog.

Penelope, when I was "let go" they were very careful to NOT mention the blog, because they knew that I did nothing against the rules. They came up with a bullshit reason to fire me citing my "scheduling issues" which were not really a problem at all. I was in agreement to not say that I was fired for the blog and went along with the official reason of my "scheduling issues." But thank you for confirming that the reason I was fired was for anonymously writing a personal opinion piece. Surely, they didn't want that to be thought of as the reason because there has been case after case taken to court that gives people the right to comment online about their place of work if it is done anonymously. Which it was. People have taken employers to court to fight for their job back after being fired for the reason you just told me I was fired for. Luckily, I don't want the job back. But thanks for confirming. As for the email about not Tweeting, etc, that came to me after I was fired. No where in the piles of crap that I signed did it say anything about that. I checked. I bet from now on there will be though. You're welcome.

"Lispy Gay Manager was really hurt by a fellow gay making fun of him."

Well, then maybe you shouldn't have shown him the blog. I guess you hold some responsibility for his feelings being hurt, because it wasn't me who alerted him about the highly fictionalized version of him. And who says I'm gay? Me? Gay? That's silly, girlfriend.

"Maybe this will help confirm things for you. Behind your back we refer to you as Side Show Bob."

Side Show Bob is cool. You don't have to refer to me that way behind my back. Friends refer to me that way in front of my back. I don't mind it.

"Ok I am really going to stop indulging in this."

I doubt you can stop indulging in this. The Bitchy Waiter is like a donut. You know it's not that good for you, but it's a guilty pleasure. I know you have probably been reading the whole time since I was fired and couldn't wait to respond to the "I was fired post." And you did it. The day I posted it. Thank you for not disappointing me.

And you should also know that I have gotten more than a few emails from people from the "new job" who said they like the blog. They have agreed with many of my observations about some of the people that were written about. So, I was not the only "cancer" on the staff. Maybe you should spend some time searching out who also thinks some of the staff there have sticks up their asses. I am not the only one. I have the emails to prove it. And I recognize some of the fans on the Facebook page too. So yes, I am done with this. I wrote some mean things. I'm sorry. But you know what? The staff there was not very friendly to me either. I understand why. People must come and go so quickly (Judy Garland reference and so gay) there and people don't want to invest any time in the new folks until they know they are going to be there for a while. It's a shit show. There was no communication, the policies were never explained to me, I was told I did not have a paycheck when in fact I did, they ignored my emails, and they never followed through on what I was told would happen from orientation through getting on the floor. I was excited to work there when I got hired, but it changed. If no one would have been an ass to me, I wouldn't have had anything bad to write about.

Monday, November 29, 2010

A couple of weeks ago, there was some drama here when someone named Penelope threatened to out this blog to my managers and get me fired. Why Penelope would want to have me fired is beyond me because all I ever wrote about was the ineptitude of some of the protocol at the new job and then some heightened reality about a couple of specific managers. Sure, I said that Holly Hobbie had a lemon up her ass, but does that mean she actually had a lemon up her ass? Doubtful. It's called fiction. And yes, the way the tip pool works is really crappy for me and I do think the system should have been explained to me before I was hired; certainly before two weeks into my employment. I could have saved us all a lot of time if that would have been told to me at the beginning. Here's is what Penelope wrote:

There is no need to forward your resignation letter on to me; I know exactly who you are. Yes, we work together. You gave away so many details it was easy to look at the schedule and figure out exactly who you are.

Things to know about our POOLED house. There will be nights and sections where you do not make $500 but you too will still reap the benefits of MY TIPS. I highly doubt you earned all of this $500, I am guessing a large amount of this revenue came from transfers.

You have a bad attitude and you are not all that as a server.

I think it would be best that you move on because I am going to expose you and that could be uncomfortable for you.

As it turns out, Penelope was a hoax. Yes, I was "let go" but it had nothing to do with The Bitchy Waiter. After my probationary period, it was determined that they did not want to work around my schedule since I have another job. True, I had a very specific time that I could work and I totally understand why they don't want to deal with that. (Even though I told them at my first interview...) I was no longer needed due to "scheduling issues" but the blog was never mentioned, proving that Penelope was just trying to fuck with me. Good job, Penelope, because I was a bit concerned. Way to go, you silly prankster, you. Good job! I pretty much knew that she didn't know what she was talking about when she said I "have bad attitude" and I'm "not all that as a server." No one at the new job had any reason to think I had a bad attitude because I didn't. I was new. You really think I am going to show my crappy side within day two at a new job. No. And I know I am all that as a server. I had several tables tell me so during my short tenure there. In fact, on my first day out of training, someone told they had eaten there six times in the last four months and I was the best server they had ever had there, by far. I did some Google research about the service at that restaurant (which will remain unnamed) and it is the one thing that people are consistently disappointed with. The turnover is high meaning the level of service is never where it should be. Maybe if they kept me, it could have gotten better.

But I was fired. Or let go. It was huge blessing for me, because I was not happy there. However, if I quit, I would not be eligible for unemployment. Seeing that they let me go for their own reasons and not because I did something wrong (like anonymously discuss a place I work while never mentioning the name of the restaurant or the name of anyone I worked with), I simply reopen my unemployment claim and find the next job. A job that won't mind working around a schedule. Au revoir, "new job." It was fun. Actually, it wasn't fun. At all. That place gave me the shivers every time I walked into it.

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Sunday, November 28, 2010

As you know, I am a warm, caring, open-minded, genuine person who only wants the best for people and strives to make others happy. (Did you just see that lightening strike my keyboard?) When I start a new restaurant job, I think the most important relationships that must be built right away are those with the kitchen staff. They are the ones who can make or break you. If I forget to ring in a dessert, I wanna know that if I run to the pastry station, they will be willing to help me out in a pinch. At a recent training day, I was trailing my server and trying to get the lay of the land. We headed over to the dessert station to pick up some cake or something and I noticed a surly looking woman behind the line. My trainer picked up her dessert but then Grumpy Dessert Lady (GDL) made evil eye contact with her. "Is that order done?" she barked. It looked done. The ticket had two items on it and those same two items were sitting there, so we assumed it was complete. GDL thought otherwise. "It's a VIP order so I am going to add something to the ticket. You don't take the dessert until you see the ticket next to it." Now she could have said this in a nice way, but she said it like it was the most irritating thing that has ever happened in her whole grumpy life. She slowly placed a plate of cookies on the shelf and then set the ticket next to it. "Now, it's done." We stabbed the ticket and moved on. I gave my trainer a look that said "what crawled up her ass, made a nest, had babies, and died?" My trainer simply responded with, "She's a bitch. Everybody knows it." It was then that I decided to make Grumpy Dessert Lady my new best friend.

A couple of days later, I saw her there being all pissy and angry that she was making desserts all day and approached her. I didn't want to speak to her until spoken to first because that is how it's done with big time fancy ass Grumpy Dessert Ladies. I stood there with a big smile on my face for about forty-five seconds. I could see that she noticed me out of the corner of her eye, but wanted to make me wait. I was fine with waiting because really all I wanted to do was yank her fucking chain a bit. She finally looked up at me and said, "What is it?" No smile, no hint of friendliness to the new guy, no nothing. I put out out my hand and said, "Hi!" She didn't shake my hand. She just looked at me trying to figure out what the hell I wanted. "I'm new here and I am just trying to get to know everyone. My name's Bitchy Waiter, what's yours?" She told me her name (which I forgot already, because I never really cared to begin with.) I continued. "I just am trying my darndnest to learn every body's name here. So now I know your name too! I will try to remember your name, but my goodness there are so many people here. Don't hate me if I forget your name." It was clear that she didn't need me to forget her name in order for her to hate me. I pressed on. "Well, have a good day. It was nice meeting you. See you later alligator." Big wave and I was on my way. I could see that she was confused by my friendly behavior. I got a kick out of it, because I knew that nobody liked her and it was the first time someone had been friendly to her in a long time. And I didn't even want to be her fucking friend. I just wanted to lay some groundwork for the first time I needed something in a hurry from her.

I haven't seen Grumpy Dessert Lady lately. I suppose our schedules have not crossed, but rest assured. If I ever need to get a dessert on the fly, that Grumpy Dessert Lady will think back to how friendly I was to her and bend over backward to help me. Or maybe not. Who cares? I just wanted to freak her out a bit by showing her that some people in that restaurant still knew how to use their smile muscles.

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Saturday, November 27, 2010

Seeing that it is Saturday, and no one reads this shit on the weekend, I shall continue with the adventures of The Frazzled but Happy Stay-at-Home Mom:

Oh my goodness gracious, dear readers, I am exhausted. Is it just me or does Thanksgiving sap away your energy too? I got up on Turkey Day (gobble gobble) at 4:00 AM because I had so many things to do. All of it cooking! I made a turkey but I also baked a ham, made a pot roast and created my first ever Tofurkey Meatloaf because we had so many people come over and I wanted everyone to have their choice of food to give thanks over. Of course my husband was there and the kiddos, but we also had 12 guests. That made for 16 people. Whew! We were going to have my parents over as well as my sister and her family but my sweet husband had the best idea ever. He wanted to have something called an "Orphan Thanksgiving" which shows you how caring and sweet that darling precious man of mine is. An Orphan Thanksgiving is when you extend an invitiation to anyone else who may not have someplace else to go for Thanksgiving. Not actual orphans I suppose, but just people who don't have any family nearby. Since we have place settings for 16, we decided that we could invite a dozen people. I was going to invite the homeless man who washes the windows at the church, but my dear sweet husband filled up those slots so quickly that I had to rescind my invite to Wally the Window Washer. I also wanted to invite our neighbor who lost her husband three weeks ago, but Hubby was insistent that his guests were more in need. So his guest list is what we had.

All twelve of the young girls he invited were so sweet. Various women from his job and his volunteer work and they were all very gracious. Dinner was set for 3:00, so from the time I got up, I had eleven hours to get everything ready. It was a challenge, because two of the girls had a gluten allergy, four were vegetarian one was vegan and eleven of them were "watching their weight." One girl was fine with anything I served and seemed a bit depressed the whole day. I noticed that she kept giving my hubby an odd look, so she must be very sad that she can't be with her family at this time of year. I don't know why any of them needed to watch their figure because all of them were about a size 2 and pretty as a picture. They all loved my cooking. And you know how they say that the tryptophan in turkey makes you sleepy? It does! Within minutes of finishing dinner, all of the girls needed a nap right away. Some of them hadn't even had turkey so it must have been contagious, LOL. They all went down to the basement into my husband's office for a nap and hubby even joined them while I cleaned up the dishes. (I do wish he would give me a key to his office so I could clean it once in a while. Who knows how much dust is in there and I can't believe the company might think I'm not a good housekeeper!) The 13 of them stayed in there for two and a half hours sleeping off dinner. One girl came up to get some Gatorade because she said the Tofurkey meatloaf made her thirsty, but she hurried right back in as soon as she was finished. Now before you think I am completely naive, let me say something: I know they weren't sleeping in there. I heard one of them say something about new underwear so I am pretty sure that my husband was enlisting their help for my Christmas present. He knows that the best way to find out what a woman wants for a gift is to ask another woman, so I let him stay in there and devise the perfect plan for his Christmas shopping. Last year, the poor dear was so busy with work, he only had time to make me a handmade gift certificate good for one free kiss whenever I wanted it. (I still have it, Hubby. LOL!!)

Well, readers, I must go. I did all my Christmas shopping yesterday and I am ready to start wrapping gifts. I love the holidays almost as much as I love my Hubby and kids. LOL.

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Friday, November 26, 2010

As luck will have it, I was not needed at the new job yesterday, so I was able to pick up a better gig. I put out some feelers and found a job where I could be one of two servers in the home of someone who was hosting Thanksgiving for 22 guests. Basically, they wanted to have a big ass dinner but didn't want to have to clean that shit up. Enter The Bitchy Waiter, along with some other server who I had never met. The two of us were there to warm up the gravy, make a second batch of dressing, prepare the coffee and wash a hundred and fifty jillion dishes. It's a good gig when you can get it. Way better than being in a restaurant for ten hours and churnin' and burnin' tables like a fiend.

The people who hire help for special occasions are a rare breed. Most of them would never consider themselves rich, but just by living in a three bedroom, two bathroom co-op on the Upper West Side means they have plenty of money. The majority that I have worked for under these circumstances have been very very friendly. Yesterday, the family was completely nice and made it extremely comfortable for me to be in their home serving them. I wondered if their usual "girl" was off for Thanksgiving which is why they hired me. I was at the sink washing some dishes with this ratty ass sponge so I looked under the sink to find a new clean one. It was a mess underneath that sink and I couldn't find one so I asked my employer. She came over to the sink and said, "Hmmm, there must be another one under here somewhere." She proceeded to dig around and she finally produced a sponge that was not much better than the one I was using. It was then that I thought she is completely unfamiliar with her kitchen. Later on when it came time for me to clean the stove, I asked her what she wanted me to use on it. You know, 409, soap and water, Windex? She had no answer for me. Stumped, she giggled and said, "I dunno what she uses.I guess anything under the sink is fine." Ah ha! So she does have regularly hired help. Since she said she anything was fine if it was under the sink, I used Pledge furniture polish. Kidding. I used Fantastick, just like I do on my own stove, which is the same model as hers but mine is the newer one. My stainless steel fridge with the freezer at the bottom and double doors is also much nicer than hers. Score one for the waiter.

Another time, I helped serve for a three year old's birthday party. Same kinda deal; a big expensive apartment on the Upper East Side. I showed up and the maid was there and it was my job to assist her in any way she needed. The lady of the house was in a panic because this birthday party needed to be the bestest most amazingest three year old birthday party ever. She had bought this huge cake with Barney on it, but they had colored his stomach yellow instead of the normal green color. She was livid, because everyone knows that dinosaurs are purple and green not purple and yellow, right? The party was going to be ruined! So she had her husband remove all the yellow sprinkles from Barney's stomach and then replace them with green ones. The only problem was that she didn't have a jar of green sprinkles. She had multi-color sprinkles. So she had her husband go through and separate all the green sprinkles from the jar and start to redecorate the Barney stomach. The husband thought it was ridiculous. So did I. And so did the maid. After about twenty minutes, he finally put his foot down and told his wife, "It's a cake. For three year olds. They'll get over it." Meanwhile, the maid and I cut the fruit, set the table, cooked the apps, cleaned the kitchen, made the finger sandwiches and decorated the room. The wife got dressed. When the first guest arrived, the apartment looked perfect. "Oh my God, this looks great! I don't know how you manage to find the time. How do you do it?" The woman put her hands out with the palms up and shrugged her shoulders while tilting her head and grinning. (Do that: hands out, palms up, shrug shoulders, tilt head, grin. Got it?) The lady's answer? "I dunno. I just make a plan and follow through." At this, she tossed her hair and laughed. The maid and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. The party was a huge success. And no one gave a shit about the color of Barney's stomach. Yep, those folks who can hire help are an interesting group.

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Thursday, November 25, 2010

I got up early today to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving day parade because it is a fine tradition that must be upheld. Plus, I feel close to the event since I walked in the parade a few years ago when I was playing one of my finest roles ever, trash can:

Around the country, the smell of turkey and dressing is wafting through the air and mouths are watering for the first bite of pumpkin pie. Families are gathering around the table in anticipation of giving thanks and stuffing themselves with food until they can no longer move. Here in my house, the only food aroma that is happening is that of the Crunchy Peanut Butter Cliff bar that I bought for myself to serve as a snack when I go to work. I was scheduled to work at the new job seeing that they had about 525,600 reservations, but things changed. I will now be serving in the home of some rich folks on the Upper West Side. I say rich because if they can afford to live on the Upper West Side and they can spend money to have someone like me come in and be their maid for five hours, then they must have money to burn. I don't mind. The expected tip for something like that is about a hundred bucks and the entire thing will go into my pocket. There will be no busser, food runner, host, barista, bartender or barback to split it with leaving me only $35. It will be all mine. When you factor in the hourly wage, it makes for a keen day of earning indeed. Basically I will be warming up their food, putting it on serving plates and then cleaning up afterwards. It's very glamorous. Actually, I don't mind at all. When the family drama starts happening and Aunt Judy has too much wine and gets all handsy with her niece's boyfriend, I can turn a blind eye and just go wash a plate.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone out there. Enjoy your day and carry on your traditions. And there is one more tradition that I must acknowledge. It is a new one that started last year. It's the one where you throw a big ass frozen ham into the face of Paula Deen. It's a damn good tradition. Every time I watch the video, it brings a smile to my face. I am also utterly surprised that Paula didn't just catch that ham with her teeth in mid air and swallow it whole. Watch the video and give thanks. Happy Thanksgiving.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Okay, so it is time to toot my own horn for just a moment (as if I don't do that pretty much every day...) but I must share some news with you. Something I have written has been selected for publication in a new magazine and I am pretty darn proud of it. I am not going to judge the people who chose my writing but they must have been on their third or eighth round of Hollie Hobby Sangria when they thought my writing was good enough to pass the test, but for whatever reason they chose me. And I said yes. I have a feeling that the next day when they saw my email, they were like, "Did we really ask The Bitchy Waiter if we could publish that shit?" It's sorta like when you get really drunk and go home with someone and the next morning you see a mountain of flesh and hair in your bed and realize that you may have slept with it. But regardless, they asked, I said yes, and it's too late now for them to change their minds.

The magazine is called The Printed Blog. You can check out their website here. It's a great idea for a new magazine. They are trolling the Internet and finding the most interesting stuff (plus The Bitchy Waiter) and then printing it in an actual magazine. I think they realize that there are still plenty of people who like the tactile act of turning real actual pages. Plus, reading a magazine is so much nicer when you are on the subway, an airplane or the toilet. I mean an iPad is great, but you don't want to carry that into the bathroom with you, right? They also have a Facebook page that I think you should check out here. And finally if you want the digital version of the showcase issue you can go right here and download it. Get it now while you can, because soon it will cost you real money to see this fucking cool magazine. And did I mention I am in it? Page three, ladies and gents! Go subscribe right now.

I just want to say thanks to Josh and the whole gang at The Printed Blog and also a thank you to the readers who come here every day. Your emails make me happy and you encourage me to keep writing. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I say thank you. Thank you very much.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

I was sitting on the sidewalk in Times Square yesterday at 6:50 AM because I was waiting in line for an audition. Sure I was watching men pile crap into a garbage truck, I could smell the stench of someone who was probably sleeping in that exact spot a few hours before and the air was a little chilly, but it was all better than being at work. I was just two short blocks away from The Houlihan's that I spent so many happy hours at so I want to tell a story of those days.

We used to have this bartender named Evy. She was grumpy, mean, a habitual liar and not a very nice person. I always managed to stay on her good side because if you didn't, she would flat out refuse to make your drinks. You could be so in the weeds and then you finally run over to the bar to pick up your ten million pina coladas and they wouldn't be there. And Evy would say something like, "Oh I must have been changing the printer paper when you placed your order. Sorry." Yeah, she was that kind of person. I quickly learned to kiss her ass in order to make my life easier. We worked together for a long time and after a while all of her wild and fanciful stories seemed to be a little too wild and fanciful. It took me and the rest of my co-workers a long time to realize that she was making up shit left and right. One day she came into work with her head half shaved in this kind of mid-90's asymmetrical bob deal. It was not like her to have a hair cut like that so we all asked her what made her decide to go so radically different. She had an answer:

Well, I went to Las Vegas this weekend just because I thought it would be fun. So I was there with a friend of mine and we were at a bar. The bartender was totally ignoring us and I really wanted a drink so I told him that I was getting mad and I went off in him. The man next to us, turned to me and said, "You are the meanest most horrible vile person I have ever seen in my entire life. And I want you to be in my movie. So he cast me as a gang member with a bad attitude and he wanted me to cut my hair this way. So I did. Because I'm gonna be in a movie. Me! And I'm not even an actor! Isn't that crazy?

It was at this point that we all started to realize that Evy might have a wee case of the pathological liar syndrome. Of course the movie deal fell through. Because it never happened to begin with. Her stories were always big. Like the time she went to a Knicks game and ended up in the VIP seats "just because" or when she was going to go to Paris next week "for the fun of it" but then it didn't happen because something else came up. If she was a Facebook friend, her status would always be like, "OMG, just because I turned down Prince William's proposal now he's gonna marry that skank Kate Middleton" or "I ♥ scratch off lottery tickets. Just one $500! Again."

I don't know whatever happened to Evy. I can''t even remember if she left Houlihan's first or if I did. It was impossible to be her friend because you never knew what her real story was. All I knew to do was listen to her tales and nod enthusiastically so that when I needed something from the bar, she would just make it. Life was simple then. Good luck, Evy, wherever you are. To hear her tell it, she probably had plastic surgery, changed her name and got racial reassignment and is now living in the White House as our first African-American first lady.

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Monday, November 22, 2010

What do you have to wear for shoes at your job? It's one of the things I hate the most about putting together a work uniform/costume because shoes are too freakin' expensive to begin with. And then to have to buy a pair that you are only going to wear at work and eventually you see them covered in coffee, ketchup and tears. At my most recent job, I was required to buy a very specific pair of shoes so that they would match the decor of the restaurant. Unlike normal eateries, this place wanted shoes based on style rather than comfort or safety. We were asked to wear Converse or Vans or Keds or some similar sneaker and they needed to be a certain shade as well. They encouraged us to look for these shoes at thrift stores in order to "go green" but like anyone is going to buy a pair of used shoes. You may as well just put out a welcome home sign for bed bugs, cooties and bacteria. So I splurged and bought some really cute tan colored Vans that I thought I would wear outside the job too. However, once I wore them at work for more than a couple of hours, I knew these would only be work shoes. I have never noticed before, but sneakers like that have absolutely no support and wearing them on hard floors all day was not good for the dogs. In addition, they have no resistance, so slipping was a common occurrence. "Oh, what? You slipped and busted your ass and your arches have fallen? Pity. Your shoes are darling though and they go so well with the decor."

After my first eight hour shift, I was longing for my Payless $29.99 work shoes that are made of vinyl and have a skid resistant sole. Any food or drink that drops onto them simply wipes right off with a wet paper towel. These Vans were made of canvas, so the first time any bit of food gets on them, it's a permanent stain. And they were not good for my corn either. Yeah, that's right. I have corn on my little toe and no amount of Dr. Scholl's products will heal it. I have had it for so long that it's practically a member of the family. Seriously, my corn will have a place at the table on Thanksgiving. Only on that day we won't refer to it as "corn. In honor of Thanksgiving, we shall call it "maize."

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Friday, November 19, 2010

A lot of times, people ask me how I come up with a topic each day to write about. Sometimes it’s really simple. Some stupid ass may post a comment that is crying out for a response or maybe something in the news gets my wheels to turnin’ and I use it for inspiration. Most commonly though, an event or person at work makes it clear that they are the next thing that should be written about. But sometimes all of those are brick walls. I scratch my head and ponder the possibilities but come up with nothing. These are the times that I have to dig deep into the recesses of my (very shallow) mind. I clear my thoughts and wait for an idea to pop up. I may be in the shower, or about to fall asleep or even at the gym on a cardio machine when a light bulb goes off. But not today.

I was at the gym and on an elliptical machine struggling to do 5,000 strides in thirty minutes and waiting for an idea to come to me. Should I write about the tired ass drama at the new job? Or should I write about that ridiculous handbook full of stupid ass rules that I am trying to familiarize myself with? Suddenly and without warning, I felt the beginning of a brilliant topic on the precipice of my subconscious. I mean, it was really good. Like a blog post that would inspire people to share it with their friends and make this bitch of a blog go viral and then I heard a huge creaking sound. My goddamn elliptical machine was fucked up. I wasn’t about to get off it because I only had 12 minutes left and I didn’t want to jeopardize my distance and calories burned. So I kept going even though it was screeching and moaning the whole remaining 12 minutes plus the three minute cool down. How dare this machine steal an idea from me. The creaking and groaning scared away the most brilliant idea I have ever had and I blame my gym and their crappy ass elliptical machine.

When I got home, I did a Google search to see if I could find some elliptical reviews so I could find out what the fuck was wrong with the machine I was on. I was ready to look their ass up and send them a dirty rotten (and of course anonymous) email raking them and their machine over the coals. I actually found the machine that I was using at the gym (a Nordic Track A.C.T. if you care) and was surprised to see that there was no mention of it breaking down right when people are about to have a brilliant idea. Sure, it gives your upper body a work out and has a heart rate monitor, but it doesn’t do anything to help you remember a great idea that you had for only half a second. Damn you, Nordic Track A.C.T., damn you to hell. I did take the time to forward the elliptical reviews website to my gym because they said they are about to replace all of their machines and I wanted to do my part. Hopefully, the next elliptical machine they buy will not make annoying screeching noises. And I also hope it has a television, because cardio is so much better when you can watch Maury Povich and see if Bubba is or is not the father of Charlene’s baby.

Okay, so tomorrow maybe The Bitchy Waiter will actually be about waiting tables. But bitches, it ain’t easy coming up with something every day. Especially when you're as lazy as I am.

Last week I worked a dinner shift and at the new job and dinner is what it's all about. People come in there ready to drop some coins and I was happy to help them out. It's funny when you're the new guy because you want to know all the answers to everything, but you just don't yet. When people ask me which is better, the lobster or the strip loin, do they really think that the restaurant lets the servers sample that? No. We get a shift meal of pasta and salad or tacos. So when I say that the lobster is so delicious because it has a subtle taste of the smoke from the wood in the oven, I am blowing said smoke up your ass. I just repeat what I have heard other customers say. And if every single person who orders the arctic char says it's the most wonderful piece of fish they have ever had in their mouth, then I am going to say the same thing. Have I actually tasted it? No. No, I have not. When it comes to wine service, it's even more difficult. I can look at the list and tell you how it is described (citrus with a cherry aftertaste and a full rich flavor of apple fucking blossoms...) but I have not really had it. But the other night, I had a big shot in my station. He was president of some major company and owns about 1000 restaurants around the world and I am pretty sure none of them are called Pizza Hut or Applebee's.

"Pardon me, but do you have a sommelier here?" he asks me."No sir, we don't, I'm sorry." He reminded me of a Grey Poupon commercial. "Can I help you?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it, because unless he was going to ask me about a California Cooler or some cheap ass Yellow Tail Chardonnay, I wasn't going to be able to follow through on my suggestion."Yes, I would like a good bottle of wine. What would you recommend?"My mind started to race. "Should I just pick a random bottle? Which one? The most expensive? If it's expensive it must be good. How do you pronounce that shit anyway? Maybe my two nights in Sonoma wine country over the summer was enough to make me come up with an educated guess. Oh fuck., I dunno." Finally, I said to the man this: "Sir, I am going to be completely honest with you. I work mostly lunches. My wine knowledge is not what it should be. I could make up something so you would think I knew what I was doing, but I think you would rather me admit this to you. Would you let me find someone who can assist you the way you deserve to be?"

The man paused and I thought I had just royally fucked up. He tilted his head and squinted his eyes as if he was so supremely disappointed with me, the service, the restaurant and the entire wine making industry. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. "Young man?" (Brutally long pause.) "I appreciate your honesty and integrity. Thank you for that. And yes, would you mind asking someone else to make a recommendation for me?" I may be paraphrasing that last part, because honesty I got a little woozy when he called me young. I sent someone over who knows the wine menu backwards and forward and he helped the man choose the most perfect bottle of wine.

The gentleman left me a huge tip at the end of the night, presumably because I was an honest upstanding waiter who was willing to admit to his faults if it meant giving the customer better service. Or maybe he tipped me huge because he and his table polished off a couple bottles of wine and several Grey Goose martinis and he was too trashed to tell the difference between his bills in his wallet . Either way, he left happy and so did I.

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Thursday, November 18, 2010

I am reposting this because I went back to the same restaurant for more of the delicious hibiscus margarita. The place is called Spring Street Natural. Sit at the bar. Ask for Caitlin. Tell her the Bitchy Waiter sent you.

After a long hard day of shopping, I scoured the Soho area for a place that would sooth my overwhelming desire for a cocktail. I came upon a place on Spring street that promised natural and delicious foods but what really sealed the deal for me was the liquor licence that was displayed proudly over the bar. The bartender Caitlin greeted me warmly and handed me a menu. She seemed nice enough but I was soon to learn that she was no mere bartender. She was an angel sent down from heaven to show me the road to the most delicious libation ever to have passed my lips. And that's saying a lot. My first drink had Pisco in it and it took me back to a few months ago when I first tried this liquor and kinda fell in love with and wanted to marry it. However, if gay marriage isn't legal in New York, I am pretty sure that me marrying a bottle of liquor ain't gonna fly at City Hall either. For my second cocktail, I returned to the menu and my eyes were drawn to something. It was if they were forced to focus on a drink called Hibiscus Cranberry Margarita. How had I not seen that first? Had my tequila radar been on the fritz momentarily? I quickly ordered it. When Caitlin returned, her blond hair had morphed into a halo and the glass she offered me was the Holy Grail. Sipping it for the first time was unlike anything I have ever felt when having a cocktail. Ever. (Well, not since a few days ago. I do love me some tequila.) My tongue frolicked in the lovely libatious (not a word, but should be) liquid of hibiscus infused tequila. My taste buds bloomed as if the hibiscus flower itself had taken root in my mouth. I looked at Caitlin who by now was sporting the shimmering wings of an angel and plucking a harp with perfection. She was indeed my tequila angel and I fell madly in love with the cocktail. "What is in this?" I uttered? "For it is all things heavenly and wonderful and if but all the world could taste this, then wars would cease and humanity would become one. How have I not been granted the privilege of tasting this hibiscus tequila before now? Tell me, dear sweet Caitlin...what is in this margarita?" She proudly told me that she had created the recipe herself, thereby confirming that she was in fact heaven sent. She listed the ingredients and gave me the bottle of Gran Centenario Roseangel hibiscus infused tequila to hold. Of course the word "angel" was on its label, for how could it not be? For this truly was a gift from God. I cradled the bottle to my chest and whispered to it that soon it would be living in my house. I handed the bottle back to Caitlin and thanked her for bestowing this gift upon me.

Before I left, I told Caitlin that I would be writing about her. I gave her a card and she was kind enough to pretend that she had heard of The Bitchy Waiter. Hopefully she will read this. (Do angels use computers?) Caitlin, if you read this give me a sign. Create a rainbow or have a unicorn fly by me or come to me in a vision. Or you can just log in and say, "Hey it's me Caitlin. You're a freak."

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Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I may need to have my Psychic Friends card revoked and take Dionne Warwick off my speed dial, because some predictions I made a couple of days ago did not come true. I repeat: they did not come true. Despite wearing my best Valerie "Rhoda" Harper scarf and trying to look like a fortune teller gypsy, my powers failed me. I predicted that my job would call me about not showing up for a shift that I had clearly told them I was unable to make due to my other job. It had already happened with another shift because of a communication breakdown (in other words, somebody didn't read their email). But behold, I did not get a phone call asking me where I was. Either the management team finally read my email or they decided to fire my ass and I just don't know about it yet. Either way, my prediction failed miserably. The other vision I had was that of me having a citrus martini at the end of the night. That too failed to come to fruition when I instead had a glass of pinot grigio because I was too lazy to do anything other than pour from an already opened bottle of wine.

Maybe my psychic powers have gone. I certainly hope not, because I still play the lottery numbers that I dreamed about 23 years ago and I know that someday they are going to come up. Yolanda Vega is going to whisper those six sweet digits into her microphone and they will be handing over one of those gigantic checks made out to The Bitchy Waiter. I will now look into the bottom of my cup of tea and read the leaves to see what else I see in the near future. These are my latest predictions:

Bristol Palin will win Dancing With the Stars prompting her mother Sarah to follow the surge of victory and run for president in 2012 with Bristol as her running mate.

California will finally have "the big one" causing Los Angeles to break off and float into the Pacific Ocean making it one gigantic island where marijuana is legal and movie tickets cost $28 each.

Lindsay Lohan will revive her career in a film adaptation of Gilligan's Island. She will play Mary Ann. She will win a People's Choice award for it. That girl who plays Joan on Mad Men will play Ginger Grant.

It will be determined that high fructose corn syrup isn't really all that bad for you.

A massive tsunami will hit a tiny island in the south Pacific but no one will die because by sheer coincidence the entire island will all be seeing Mission Impossible 4 which will be playing at the lone movie theater which happens to be on the highest part of the island. Tom Cruise will be designated a national hero and he will move there and become their God/President. Suri will stay in the United States because she "needs a break" from her dad.

Gay marriage will become legal in a slew of states because all of a sudden people will realize, "oh, who fucking cares anymore?"

Oprah Winfrey will decide that season 25 is not her final season after all and she will take her show on the road playing Knights of Columbus Halls across the land.

Vice president Joe Biden will admit that he had some "work done."

American Idol will play its final season because no one cares about the new judges and its time to out a fork in that shit.

The whereabouts of Amelia Earhart will finally be discovered. It turns out she has been in line at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle.

The Bitchy Waiter will have something new to bitch about.

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Tuesday, November 16, 2010

I have not written about the tipping situation at the new job yet, because I needed to get a handle on it. I was pretty sure it was going to suck but today I realized that it was not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It is so much fucking worse. This place has the most fucked up inane way of tipping out employees that I have ever seen and I should know having worked in the food and beverage industry since the the Pilgrims first landed on these shores. I was a fucking cater waiter at the first Thanksgiving and even then I only had to tip out the Native Americans 10% of my tips. Plus some ears of corn and some glass beads. But this new job takes the frickin' cake.

First off, it's a pooled house which does not make me happy. I pool at my other job, but there are only two servers and a bartender. At the end of the shift, we split the money three ways and call it a day. But this new job has way too many employees and apparently they are all considered "tipped employees" meaning they get the bare bones minimum of $4.60 an hour leaving the rest of their salary up to the tips from the customers. From the tip that the customer leaves me, a portion of it goes to the busser, food runner, bartender, backwaiter, barista, host, maitre d' and the homeless lady who lives in a refrigerator box next door. It's fucking bananas. And we don't get the tips at the end of the day. Oh no. All of them get written into a log and then they are put through this spreadsheet to be dispensed to us on the Friday of the next week. So I started working the floor on one day and will not get those tips until eleven days later. They take all the tips for that shift, add them up, divide by the number of hours for everyone who worked that day to come up with an hourly wage. And then you get your tips depending on that hourly wage and what percentage of the hour you have earned. In other words, bussers get .5 of the hour and waiters get .8 of it. So a busser gets 30 minutes of that hourly wage and I get 48 minutes of it. A bartender gets a full point so they get the whole hourly wage. Make sense? Yeah, me either.Example: if the hourly wage comes up to $20, then a busser would get ten bucks and a waiter would get twenty for every hour worked. After two weeks of trying to get an answer about the tipping procedure, I was finally explained this yesterday. Had they told me this shit at the first interview, I'd never have stayed. And an added bonus? They also told me yesterday, "Oh, and sense you're still within your first five days out of training, you only get .6 of the hour and not .8" What the fuckity fuck?

Here's how it breaks down. One night last week, my sales were $2500. I kept track of my tips and made about $500 that night. $411 were credit cards tips and $90 was in cash which went to bartender for safekeeping. According to the formula my take-home would be about $175.00 for that night. Oh, hell no. Don't get me wrong. $175 is good for a shift, but not when I had pulled in $500. That means I tipped out 65 fucking percent to other people. This is very upsetting to me, but if it's their way then it's their way. It's not illegal or anything, I just don't like it. I tend to do better in small restaurants with just a couple of servers.

Am I pissed off? Fuck yes. Now I know why they were so hesitant to sit down and explain the tipping pool to me. (Because I would have quit.) Now I know why they have only 50% of their original staff from when the opened six months ago. (Because it sucks.) Now I know why all of the servers there are young (Because they don't know when they are being taken advantage of.) What really irks me is that this place is a gold mine. Customers are fighting to get in. And the company is raking it in because even though they have about 1000 people on staff, all of us are only getting minimum wage. And when I give exceptional service and get a 30% tip (hey, it happens), I don't get to benefit from that. A shitty server in the next station gets to benefit from that more than I do. I am itching to name this restaurant, but not until I quit. And when I quit, I will write my resignation letter right here on this blog and send the whole staff a link to it so they can see it for themselves. The Bitchy Waiter indeed. Grad school suddenly looks very nice.

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Sunday, November 14, 2010

Maybe you didn't know this about me, but I'm a bit psychic. It's true. I predicted our economic downturn, I predicted the election of President Obama and I also predicted that The New Adventures of Old Christine would be cancelled despite an Emmy win for its star Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I'm good, y'all. So let me gaze into my crystal balls and see what is in the future for today.

I was put on the schedule at work for today at 5:00 which is a direct conflict with my other job. I mentioned this to managers through email and personal interaction. I went through all the right channels to make sure it was known that I would not be there today at 5:00. However, according to my vision, at 5:15 I will get a phone call from Lispy Gay wanting to know where I am.

"Hello, Bitchy Waiter? Thith ith Lithpy Gay Manager? Thorry to thee that I got your thell phone becauth I relly need to thpeak to you? I thee that you're on the thchedule but don't thee you here, tho I wath wondering (pause) where are you? Call the rethervathion line ath thoon ath you get thith methage? Thankth."

You wanna know where I am, Lispy Gay? I'm at my other job. The job I told you about when I fucking interviewed with you. I am at the job that I emailed you about eight days ago when the schedule came out. The job that I emailed again about five days ago. The one that I told another manager about two days ago. That job. You don't fucking listen or read your emails so it has become your problem. When you call at 5:15, I will be unable to pick up my phone because I will be in the middle of my shift so you can go ahead and think I am a no call/no show until I forward you all the fucking emails that gave you ample warning about this conflict. Again, I am psychic so I am almost certain this phone call will be happening. Maybe not though, I could be wrong. I also predicted that by 2009 we would all be using Segways to get a around, that Madonna would win an Oscar for Evita and that I would be a rich a successful actor with a Tony award for Best Featured Actor in a Musical by now. So my powers are not perfect. One thing that I can see for certain in the next ten hours? I will be having a citrus martini. I will let you know if my prediction comes true. (The phone call one, not the citrus martini one. The citrus martini is definitely happening.)

Saturday, November 13, 2010

I have not yet written specifically about one of my new managers. She was mentioned briefly in Katy Perry Likes Mashed Potatoes as Other Manager, but it's time she has her own name and story. I will call her Porcelain Doll because she is always so put together and pristine and she looks like if she smiles, her fucking face will crack apart. None too surprising, she's a bitch. The first day I saw her she forced a weak smile and extended her tiny wimpy hand out for me to shake as she introduced herself. "At least she tried to smile," I thought. Her grip was that of a wet soba noodle. The next time I saw her was the day she was trying to produce the illusive mashed potatoes for Katy Perry. Her impression on me was less than positive. As I rang in my first order of that day and my first one without the assistance of a trainer, she was standing next to the computer. "Oh, Porcelain Doll, I'm glad you're here. Would you please make sure I am ringing this order in in the right way before I send it to the kitchen?" Porcelain Doll's response? "Well, I'm not just standing here because you're pretty." Wait, was she being funny or being a bitch? I patted my naturally curly hair and said, "Well thank you for calling me pretty" and then produced a little girly laugh. Porcelain Doll didn't move her face and it was clear that she wasn't being funny. She was being a bitch. And she didn't think what I said was remotely funny.

What is it with these managers? Were they required to take an aptitude test to determine that none of them have a funny bone in their body? Do any of them understand what a sense of humor is? Can any one of them see that the job they do is not as important as a brain surgeon or the Secretary of Defense? I have repeatedly tried to lighten things up around there only to be shot back down by a no-nonsense stare from a pair of glassed over eyes. Porcelain Doll seems to be the worst one when it comes to having any fun. She needs to be put under glass and displayed at the Museum for Artifacts of Lame Shit. Admission would be a suggested donation of ten dollars. No one would ever pay that amount to get in because the museum would suck and the only people who would go to it are kids who have to write a report on it for their social studies class. Porcelain Doll would just sit there and wait for someone to look at her but no one ever would because even the losers who would go into the Museum for Artifacts of Lame Shit would avoid her because who the hell wants to look at a doll in a museum? Porcelain Doll would eventually dry up and deteriorate into a pile of dust which the janitor would vacuum up and toss into a dumpster. A perfect ending for a perfect bitch.

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Friday, November 12, 2010

I saw something happen at work yesterday that both entertained me and horrified me at the same time. No, Holly Hobbie did not finally release the lemon that has been stuck up her ass. In fact, I think the lemon has been joined by citrus friends orange, pineapple and grapefruit along with a bottle of Cabernet. Bitch has a fucking sangria party happening up in her poop chute. I was standing near my station when I saw a woman rushing to the bathroom. She had a white creamy liquid dripping off her face and hands and her blouse was also covered with it. Next I saw a waitress following her with a linen napkin held out in front of her that was also dripping the same questionable substance. "Hmmm," I thought. "Did Lispy Gay Manager just have a party with his friends?" I looked in the direction from whence they came and saw some back waiters mopping the floor and people milling about. I then figured that someone had dropped one of the delicious organic and overpriced smoothies and it splattered all over the poor lady sitting nearby. Sucks to have smoothie all over you, right? If only it was smoothie.

When the waitress came out of the bathroom of course I got my nosy ass all up in her face and asked her what happened. "Oh nothing. This lady just threw up, that's all." That's all? Hello no, that's not all. I want details. Did the food make her puke? Did Linda Evans say hello and the very sight of the double face piercing make this woman projectile vomit? Did she get a whiff of Lispy Gay's cologne? The waitress told me that the lady was pregnant and simply threw up. My next question was this: "And did you clean it up with that napkin?" Had it been me, and I saw a lady throw up in my station, she would have been up vomit creek without a barf bag, because my ass ain't helping with that shit. If I helped, then there'd be two people tossing their cookies up in there. The waitress went on to explain that she was the oldest of about a dozen children and she grew up around pregnant women so she saw what was about to happen. "So I grabbed a napkin and tried to catch it." That's right, this Wonder Waitress caught the vomit. It was at this point I noticed there was a chunk of leftover vomit on her right shoulder. After it was pointed out to her, she laughed and went to the sink and rinsed it off with a wet paper towel. I resisted the urge to gag.

I never did see the lady come out of the bathroom. I presume she exited through the window because she was so completely ashamed about puking all over herself while a waitress tried to catch it in a fucking dinner napkin. She must have slunk her pregnant ass home and prescribed bed rest for her remaining pregnancy. Maybe after the baby is born she will be able to put this episode behind her. They say that all the pain of child birth is forgotten once you lay eyes on your new baby. Hopefully, this too will be erased from her memory. If only it could be erased from mine.

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Thursday, November 11, 2010

I need a break from discussing the new job so let us look into the Bitchy Waiter inbox and see who could benefit from the wisdom amassed from 45 years of waiting tables.

Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week. Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I have been waiting tables for exactly two weeks. Recently I had someone give me a 50%+ tip on a lunch because he was wooing people who might give him a contract. He called me toward the back, gave me some instructions that would have been obvious otherwise ("Provide those business people with good service!"), and pressed a wad of cash into my hand. "You've given me far too much," I said. "I know," he replied while staring intensely into my eyes. "Well, thank you very much. I will make sure that your table's every need is taken care of." Which I would have done anyway.

So--aside from the fact that it's my job to do what he's just overpaid me to do, and aside from the fact that his requests were for nothing more than the industry standard--what might I do to help him feel that he's getting his tips worth, so he might come back again?

thanks,

bemused

Dear Bemused,

First off let me say how impressed I am with your enthusiasm to serve having only been waiting tables for a mere two weeks. Having someone give you such a generous gratuity so early in your career should signal to you that you have indeed chosen the right path for your life's work. Congratulations! So this man was trying to impress his clients and asked for your assistance by pressing a huge wad of cash in your hand. Surely you did all the things that exceeded his expectations, but there are always a few extra steps a server can take that will impress tables. For example, if someone leaves the table, always take their napkin and fold it into the shape of a swan so that when they return they see that you have been busy. Fresh cut flowers on a table are always nice too and if you don't have any available at your restaurant, they are easy to find these days at grocery stores, delis and even gas stations. Flowers say that you care. I also find that using a guest's name (you can look on the reservation book or on their credit card) always impresses them. Doesn't "Thank you Mr. Jones" sound so much better than plain old "Thank you?" Follow these steps to ensure great service.

There was one point in your letter that caught my attention. When you say the man stared intently into your eyes as he handed you the 50%+ tip, he may been implying something else as well. Oral sex. Now I am not sure if you are male or female, but either way, you should have simply looked into the man's eyes as intently as he looked into yours and said, "Sir, I am a professional. I take pride in my job as a server and I will do whatever I can to make your dining experience a good one. Meet me behind the garbage dumpster in 10 minutes and I will service you until the cows come home. Or until I get another table, whichever comes first." If you are a straight female or gay male, this should be an easy breezy piece of cake. If you are a gay female and the idea of oral sex on a man is insulting to you I say this: 50%+ tip. If you are a straight man, there is something called "gay for pay." Look into it.

Congratulations on your wonderful career choice as a food server. I hope you have many years of happy employment and way to score such a great tip!

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Maybe you have heard that I have a new job and that it sucks big hairy donkey balls that have been shaved with a rusty razor. The restaurant is well-known and celebrities seem to flock to the place. In my short week there, I have seen famous chef Wolfgang Puck, famous lesbian finance guru Suze Orman and world renown pop star Katy Perry. I served Katy Perry on my first day out of training. As if your first day out of training isn't stressful enough, I have to have the managers breathing down my neck to make sure I cater to the every whim of Katy Perry. As it turns out, she was polite, friendly, sweet, down to earth, kind and patient. All the things that my managers are not.

When she sat down with her circle of five friends, I decided I would treat her just like I do every other person in my station: like a person. Because that's what she is. A person. Who eats food. The table ordered and then Katy (I call her Katy, because we're close like that.) asked if we had mashed potatoes. "Um, I know we do for dinner, but I have feeling that we won't have them this early in the day. Lemme check and I'll let you know, okay?" I went up to manager Holly Hobbie and another manager who I have not written about yet (long story short: she's a bitch too.) "I have a table that wants mashed potatoes. Do we have those for lunch?" "No," said Holly Hobbie. "Oh, okay, because Katy Perry was asking-" Other Manager interrupted me. "Oh, is it for Katy Perry? Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes? I will go ask the kitchen if they can make mashed potatoes for Katy Perry since Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes." She zoomed off as if the world's very existence was at stake. Holly Hobbie let her glasses slide down her nose and said, "In the future? You should always say? Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes." (I don't know why so many of these managers say everything as a question, but they do.) Got it. So the next time anyone at lunch asks for mashed potatoes, I should say Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes. Other Manager came back from the kitchen looking like she had just had her stomach punched, completely defeated. "We don't have any mashed potatoes. You'll have to tell Katy Perry we don't have them. I tried, but the chef just doesn't have them. We would try to do it for Katy Perry if we could. Now if Joe Schmo wanted potatoes then..." I finished her sentence for her. "No potato for Joe Schmo!" I laughed and turned to walk back to my station. Other Manager called at me to return. With dead seriousness she said, "I'm serious. No mashed potatoes for Joe Schmo." Wow, she was for real.

I went back to my dear personal friend Katy to break the bad news to her. "Yeah, just as I suspected we only have mashed potatoes at dinner and they're just not ready yet." And how do you think Miss Katy Perry responded? Like a normal person, she said, "Oh, okay. That's totally cool. Just fries then." I always thought I liked that Katy Perry chick and now I know for sure. She's cool. I want to send her a big tub of mashed potatoes from KFC just to say thank you for being a friend.

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Tuesday, November 9, 2010

At the new job, there is absolutely no fucking communication between management and staff. All of the managers have their heads so far up their asses that they must not have a signal for their Blackberries, because they never respond to emails even though they initially told me that "email is the best way for us to all stay connected." Email is only as good as the person who opens the fucking emails, twats.

The schedule went up with a few conflicts for me because no one ever bothered to ask about my life. At the initial interview I told Holly Hobby about my other job and that I could only work certain days. "Sure. No problem. We love people who are willing to take only a few shifts a week so that maybe they'll be able to pick up extra shifts when we need it." Clearly, she did not know who she was talking to. Me pick up extra shifts? That's funny, Holly Hobby. At the first day of orientation, they gave us the spiel about our required five days of training and after we had completed those, they would let us know if we would be invited to stay on as a member of the team. (Finally, I could be on a team. Take that, all you assholes from junior high who chose me last to be on the kickball team.) I assumed that at that discussion they would also speak to us about our availability since they have a set schedule and I have a life outside their restaurant. That didn't happen. The schedule just went up willy nilly with me all over the place. After a couple of attempts, manager Linda Evans finally emailed me back saying she would send out an email to get the shift covered and "no worries." Great. I do not have to worry about it because to me, that is what "no worries" means. But I knew that today when I was supposed to be at work, there was going to be a communication breakdown and whichever manager was working would have no idea why I wasn't showing up. Supposed to be there at noon. At 12:15, my cell phone rang which I didn't answer because I was in the shower. Thirty seconds later the home phone rings and this is what I hear from the bathroom:

Uh, hi, Bitchy Waiter? ThithithLithpy Gay Manager? And I thee that you're on the thhedule for today? But I don't thee you here? Tho can you call me aththoonath you get thithmethage? Thankth.

And yes he really talks that way and everything is in the form of a question. I want to find a period, stuff it in his mouth and cram the perpetual question mark up his ass hole. I knew this would happen. Linda Evans didn't cover my shift for me like she said she would and now I look like the douche bag new employee who doesn't give a shit about his new job. Okay, that may be true, but I don't plan on letting it be that obvious for at least three weeks. I called back and spoke to whichever host ho picked up the phone. Lispy Gay Manager was busy so she told me she would pass on my info and he would call me back if he needed to talk to me. He didn't call back, because I read the email from Linda Evans to the Host Ho that said she was taking care of it. He knew I was right.

Later today, I received an email that went out to the whole staff about shift coverage and the correct procedure. I know that it was sent on my behalf. And you know what? I won't be there on Sunday either for the same reason: I have another job, I told you I did, you said it was okay, and Linda Evans said she'd take care of it. What a fucking joke this place is. I gave up unemployment benefits for this?

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Monday, November 8, 2010

After a week of training at my new job where the people are less than friendly and the protocol is ridiculously strict, it was so nice to be back at my old job last night. It was if I had just clicked my heels together three times and was suddenly transported back to a place that was comfortable. There truly is "no place like home." My old job opened up her arms and smothered me in a warm welcoming embrace. Last night, I chatted with the host who I actually like. A lot. He didn't ignore me or tell me to clear a table like those cold bitches at the new job. My co-worker laughed at my jokes and I laughed at his, not like at the other job where no one talks to me because I'm the new guy. And most importantly, at the end of the shift, the bartender made me not one, but two citrus martinis. I think I missed him most of all. He's my scarecrow.

When I took my first order and walked back to the computer, the familiarity of that old fashioned piece of crap was so nice. Seriously, the computers that we use at the old job are like from 1986. They are huge and awkward and the screen looks like an Atari video game. (If you are too young to know what that means, I officially hate you.) Sure the fancy touch screen Aloha computers at the new job are nice, but sometimes I want a throw back to the when the days were more simple and carefree. It was nice last night to know the answers to the questions that people asked instead of having to go find out or just make something up. I suppose that eventually, I will feel comfortable at the new job, but it takes time. Time that I don't want to give. No one bossed me around last night, no one told me I was being too loud, and no one made me go to the basement and polish glasses for an hour and a half.

But alas, I have taken a new job. And given up unemployment to do so. I have painted myself into a corner because if I quit I can't just go back to unemployment. Now if they let me go though, I could. (Note to self: get fired.) I thought I could find something better in the world of food service, but I didn't. I understand now how Dorothy felt. "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again. I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with." True dat, Dorothy. True dat.

And if you like that image of the ruby slippers, you can fucking buy it here. Yeah, I painted it...)

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Sunday, November 7, 2010

In my continuing series of first impressions of the people at my new job, let us focus our attention on another manager that we shall refer to as "Linda Evans." Not because she looks like the pristine flower Krystle Carrington from the hit television show of the '80's, Dynasty, but because I always wanted a poodle named Krystle Carrington and this lady might be as close as I ever get. On my second day at work, I was standing near the bar when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was her. "Hi, I'm Linda Evans and I'm a manager. I need you (pause) to tuck your shirt in." I quickly apologized and did as I was told only to look up and see that she had vanished. Really? That's how you're going to introduce yourself to a new employee? I had seen her for two days already and thought she was host because she never said one word to me. And before you think I was being slobby or disrespectful about leaving my shirttails untucked let me inform you that I reached that decision very carefully. I noticed that most of the women did not have their shirts tucked in and none of the bartenders did including the guys. So I felt more comfortable with mine untucked as well. All it ever does is come untucked anyway whenever I reach up to a high shelf, bend over to pick up some crap off the floor or fall to my knees asking "Why God? Why? Why didn't I want to grow up to be a doctor?" Linda Evans had nothing else to say to me that day. But I watched her. And I questioned why it was me that had to have my shirt tucked in? And who was she to make that style-based decision? This chick has a nose ring, a lip piercing, was wearing tight black stretch pants and tacky ass Uggs looking boots with a fur vest? Really? My shirt was what was inappropriate? Okay, Linda Evans.

Linda Evans has not said much else to me. I had to discuss my schedule with her because she wrote it out completely ignoring the fact that I told them I could only work part-time because I have another job and a life. She scheduled me all over the fucking week with conflicts up my ass. She told me to email her and she would take care of it. Thirty-six hours have passed since I sent the email and still no word. I will not be there on Tuesday, Linda Evans. The only other time she has approached me was last night. I accidentally shut a cabinet hard too hard and it made a little bit of noise. She rushed over to me and told me I needed to be quiet. Now it was 9:00 on a Saturday night, we were packed, you could barely hear yourself think, but she told me that I shut the cabinet too loud. Why not go over to the ten top at table 14 who are on their fifth bottle of wine and ask them to bring it down a decibel or two? They have been screaming their heads off but the cabinet door I shut is what is too loud. Linda Evans clearly has a need to tell people what to do. And get this: I think I am old enough to be her father. I kinda hate her for that reason alone. I want to send some Alexis Carrington Colby over to this chica and slap the shit out of her.

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